The Friend

by Joakim Zander

  ‘It’s not necessary,’ the man mutters in heavily accented French. ‘Just leave me alone.’

  ‘Out of the question,’ George continues. ‘I insist.’

  The man seems confused. He’s trying not to look over at Klara, still standing by the bakery, while also wrapping up the situation with George. The last thing he wants is to draw attention to himself. George apologizes again and then walks past Klara into the bakery without acknowledging her.

  It takes no more than a minute for him to come out again with a cardboard cup of hot coffee in his hand. The man is standing where he left him.

  ‘I apologize again,’ George says, handing him the coffee. ‘I’m so clumsy.’

  The man looks annoyed, but he takes the cup and shoos George away, who heads back towards his building further down the street.

  Klara finishes her cigarette, pretending that she didn’t see what happened between the men. She stubs out her cigarette, goes into the bakery and buys a loaf of bread.

  When she comes out again, she no longer sees the man.

  *

  ‘He’s back in the car,’ is the first thing she hears when she enters George’s apartment. ‘With the coffee. I’m a fucking genius!’

  She walks through the hall and into the living room without taking off her shoes or coat.

  ‘He’s drinking it!’ George says.

  Klara reluctantly goes over to the window. She can see the BMW, see the man sitting behind the wheel again.

  ‘What if you got the dose wrong?’ she says. ‘What if you kill him?’

  ‘The glass is always half empty with you,’ George mutters. ‘You don’t die from a few roofies. He’ll just get a little fuzzy and disoriented, that’s all. Which means his friends will come and check on him. Focus on him drinking the coffee. This is a fucking triumph!’

  *

  George has completely abandoned the idea of going to work. They barely speak, just fiddle with their phones. Klara throws a glance over at him on a regular basis, and she can feel him doing the same. Last night and this morning linger in the room like a force field, but neither of them knows how to handle it.

  After about forty-five minutes George turns his wrist and looks at his oversized watch. ‘Should have worked by now, I’d think,’ he says, standing up.

  ‘Okay,’ Klara says. ‘This is what we do: I head out, and if he catches on, I try to get rid of him in the subway or something. Then I meet Karl myself.’

  George shakes his head.

  ‘Not a chance,’ he says. ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘I don’t want to have to think about you too, George. Stay here, I’ll call you afterwards.’

  ‘But what if something happens? You know, if something goes wrong?’

  ‘If something goes wrong?’ she says. ‘What would you do then? Grab another cup of coffee?’

  She walks over to him and strokes his cheek. It’s the first time she’s touched him since they woke up in his bed this morning.

  ‘This is my problem, George,’ she says. ‘I want to take care of it myself. For Gabriella. Do you have a hat I can borrow? Anything that might change my appearance would be good.’

  George roots around in a box in the hall and finds a light-grey hat in thin wool. He pushes it down over her ears.

  ‘At least be careful,’ he says. ‘Promise me.’

  She nods. George’s blue eyes. She can’t look away from them. Slowly she rises up onto her tiptoes and kisses him on the mouth. ‘I promise,’ she says, disappearing through the door towards whoever is following her, towards whoever it is that got Gabriella arrested.

  21 November

  Beirut/Brussels

  The grey van drives slowly through the barriers, approaching where Jacob sits on the back of Bashir’s motorcycle.

  ‘Please drive!’ Jacob begs, folding up the visor of his helmet. ‘I have to get out of here!’

  Bashir turns around and folds down Jacob’s visor. ‘Calm down,’ he says sternly. ‘If we drive away now, we attract their attention. Just sit still and shut up.’

  The van is getting closer, just twenty metres from them now. Every fibre of Jacob’s being is urging him to jump off the motorcycle and run away as fast as he can. But even if he gathered the strength to act, he’s not sure his legs would carry him. The van is just ten metres behind them, and it slows and stops just outside the entrance to the departure hall. Jacob watches as the back door glides up.

  ‘Drive!’ he screams. ‘Please drive!’

  He doesn’t get further before Bashir elbows him in the solar plexus, and he doubles over against Bashir’s back, gasping for air. ‘Shut up,’ he hisses.

  Jacob turns his head back despite the pain in his stomach. The door is completely open now and a middle-aged man in a suit steps out. Then a grey-haired man and a woman in a beige suit. The driver jumps out and starts unloading suitcases. The passengers grab them one by one and head en masse towards the departure hall.

  ‘It’s a hotel shuttle,’ Bashir says, folding up his visor. ‘You need to stop this. You need to take a deep breath, do you understand?’

  Jacob nods cautiously.

  ‘If I’d driven off in a panic, we would have attracted attention,’ Bashir says. He gestures towards the parking checkpoints and police and soldiers. ‘A motorcycle acting suspiciously is dangerous around here, you understand?’

  Jacob nods again.

  ‘I don’t know what kind of shit you’re involved in,’ he continues. ‘And I don’t wanna know either. I’m just the guy driving the motorcycle. But I’ve lived here long enough to know you can’t panic. Remember that. Ice in that gut.’ He knocks his fist against Jacob’s helmet.

  ‘Thank you,’ Jacob says, unbuckling the helmet’s straps. He feels stupid, like some excitable novice. At the same time, Bashir is right: He doesn’t have a clue about what Jacob is up to. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he says, leaving the helmet behind.

  Bashir and his motorcycle disappear. Jacob throws his backpack on his shoulder and heads towards the departure hall. His fake passport is burning a hole in his pocket. Stress is crackling beneath his skin. The wound between his shoulder blades aches.

  There’s no point in waiting: it won’t get any easier, so he goes straight to passport control. He’s flying from Beirut to Brussels using a fake passport, with tickets issued in someone else’s name. What happens if it doesn’t work, if he’s discovered? He sees Myriam’s indifferent eyes in front of him, the men in the bookstore – Guantanamo. But he has no other option now, he’s made his choice.

  With trembling fingers he pushes his passport over the counter to a tired man. Should he make eye contact? Or turn his eyes away? What are you supposed to do when you have something to hide?

  The man takes the passport and flips to the first page. He looks up at Jacob and then down at the passport again. Flips through the pages and is just about push it back to Jacob when he stops and holds it up again.

  He looks back and forth from Jacob to the passport. Jacob swallows and tries not to blink. He can feel his armpits break out in a sweat.

  The man doesn’t release Jacob from his gaze, as if nailing him into place.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Jacob asks. His mouth is dry, his voice barely more than a whisper. ‘Is there a problem?’

  The man doesn’t answer; he just holds the passport in front of him, as if to get a better look. Then he meets Jacob’s eyes again. ‘Mr Andersson?’ he says.

  Is it better to admit it? Will it matter? ‘Yes?’

  The man closes the passport and puts it on the counter. ‘Your passport expires in six months,’ he says. ‘Just so you know.’

  He pushes the passport over the scratched grey counter top. Jacob almost thinks he heard wrong, shakes his head in disbelief then grabs the passport.

  ‘Th-thank you,’ he says. ‘I’ll… make sure it gets renewed.’

  He’s almost at the security check now when he feels someone take a hard grip on his shoulder. He spins arou
nd and sees a soldier in a beret, a small, efficient automatic rifle hanging across his chest.

  Jacob instinctively holds his hands out so that the man won’t perceive him as threatening; the panic is almost paralysing. The man takes a step closer and holds up a backpack. ‘You forgot this,’ he says. ‘At passport control.’

  Jacob shakes his head to make all the pieces fall in place. It’s his bag. In all that stress, he forgot it.

  He stretches out a shaking hand and takes the bag. ‘Oh. Thank you.’

  ‘Keep track of your belongings,’ the soldier says. ‘Next time it will be confiscated.’

  *

  Just after six in the evening, Jacob lands in Brussels, and he’s convinced that his shaky hands and blurry eyes will make the woman at passport control look more closely at his passport, push some little button beneath her counter. But she just glances at him and the passport and waves him on. It’s so easy – he can’t believe it’s really happening, that he managed to escape Lebanon alive.

  As he walks through the terminal, he realizes there are even more soldiers here than in Beirut. The Paris attacks just last week have left their mark. It feels absurd, but he slept for most of the flight, exhausted and wiped out after the stress at the airport.

  What should he do now? He received no further instructions, just the tickets. Will someone come meet him? And what should he do if not?

  And then he starts to think about Gabriella Seichelmann. Was it a mistake to pull her into this? It didn’t seem like it when he was in Shatila with Alexa. Then he was so scared and confused, felt completely lost and abandoned. And now he doesn’t know if there will be a Belgian SWAT team waiting for him in the arrivals hall.

  ‘No, no, no,’ he whispers under his breath, and heads for an electronics store near the baggage claim area and arrivals hall.

  He buys a burner phone with the MasterCard the bookseller gave him and takes out the piece of paper with Gabriella’s number on it. She answers on the second ring.

  ‘This is… Karl,’ he begins. ‘I called you—’

  ‘I remember,’ she interrupts calmly. ‘It’s important we keep this short, Karl.’

  He takes a deep breath. ‘I’m here now… and I’m afraid,’ he says.

  He hasn’t even considered it before, just swung back and forth between a hard-won calm and full-fledged panic. Now he realizes how scared he is. Completely terrified.

  ‘I understand that. But you have to hold it together. We have our meeting on Tuesday, as we already agreed. The elevator outside the Palais de Justice at four p.m.’

  Tuesday? Three days. It feels like a year from now. ‘But…’ he says. ‘What should I do until then? I’m in Brussels now. What if nobody meets me, what if—’

  ‘I don’t think we should talk any more about this on the phone, better if we discuss it on Tuesday. And as I’ve said several times now, I can’t do it any sooner. I’m so sorry, but—’

  ‘You don’t understand!’ He’s raised his voice now, but gets control of himself, and lowers it so as not to be overheard in the airport. ‘I’m being hunted by so many people. I need your help.’

  ‘All the more reason to stick to the plan. We can’t risk being bugged. In any case, we may both be in danger.’

  ‘But there’s no way they could be listening, I just bought this phone—’

  ‘Do as I say,’ Gabriella says. ‘Just stay calm, do as little as possible for the next few days. I have to hang up now. We’ll meet on Tuesday as agreed. Don’t call before unless you have to change the time. This is serious.’

  Her firmness and her calmness have an effect on him, and fear loosens its grip somewhat. Just a few days. A back-up plan if all else fails.

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll manage.’

  *

  Jacob follows the stream of travellers heading towards the exit. What will happen when he exits into the arrivals hall? Will Yassim be waiting for him? Just the memory of his face, his body, makes Jacob’s hands tremble. But if he’s not there? If he’s been arrested?

  The arrivals hall is full of people waiting for family and friends. He stops and scans the motley crowd, turning his head towards the taxi drivers and their handwritten signs. He thinks he’s mistaken at first, but one of them is holding up a name that makes him jump.

  Patrik Andersson.

  The driver in a leather jacket sees him at the same time – he must have been briefed on his appearance – and starts to approach. ‘Mr Andersson,’ he says in accented English. ‘Come with me, please.’

  Jacob looks around and hesitates for a moment. He has to trust this will work out, that Yassim will make it work out. He follows the driver out of the building. They pass by taxis and cross the street into the darkness outside, towards the parking garage.

  ‘My car is over here,’ the driver says, without turning.

  Jacob follows him towards the dull yellow lights of the garage. They don’t take the elevator, just stay on the street level, heading deeper and deeper into the building, towards one of the most remote corners.

  ‘It’s just over here, not far,’ the driver says.

  Jacob thinks he hears a car door opening and closing again and footsteps echoing.

  ‘There,’ says the driver, pointing to an old black Citroen.

  The footsteps are approaching from behind. Something’s not right. There is no taxi; it looks like a private car. And why is it parked out here, so far away, despite the fact that there are so many parking spots close to the terminal?

  ‘Wait,’ he says, stopping. ‘Who sent you to pick me up?’

  The man turns to him with his hand in his pocket. He’s holding a gun, it’s obvious, far too obvious.

  ‘Your friend sent me,’ he says. ‘Yassim.’

  Just as he says it, Jacob hears footsteps right behind him. He doesn’t have time to turn, just feels his jacket being lifted above his waist, feels a cold breeze on his bare skin.

  A needle is stuck into his side. The garage spins around, his legs buckling beneath him, and everything goes black.

  24 November

  Brussels

  Klara exits George’s building and turns right, heading in the opposite direction from the intersection and the bakery, to avoid passing by the man in the old BMW. She sticks close to the grey buildings; this residential street is empty and silent at this time of day – most people are at work.

  She hasn’t gone far when she hears a car door open and close behind her. Damn, that was too simple. She’d been convinced George’s plan would prove useless. Just a few more steps to the Avenue Louise, as quickly as possible, then down to Place Stéphanie and the subway.

  She throws a glance over her shoulder. The side street where George lives is almost empty, except for a dark-haired woman in jeans. She turns her head to get a better look further up the street.

  There he is – the man with the beard. But he doesn’t look at all like before, not nearly so driven and focused. On the contrary, he seems drunk or sick, and he’s leaning against the hood of his car, searching for her while struggling to take out his phone.

  George’s pills have had the desired effect after all; the man is too inebriated to follow her. He’s fumbling with his phone now. Is he about to call a colleague? She’d better hurry before they find a replacement.

  Then she sees another figure crossing the street, headed for the man. George. She turns around completely. George is there now and grabs the man’s hand, the one holding the phone. The last thing she sees before turning right onto Avenue Louise is George pulling the phone out of his hand, and then shoving him so he’s lying over the hood of the car.

  ‘Damn it,’ she mutters and starts to jog back down the street, back towards George and whatever bullshit he’s up to.

  ‘Seriously!’ she cries as she approaches. ‘What are you up to?’

  George is just a dozen metres away and he turns to her with astonishment. He raises his arm and makes a shooing movement, while he’s staring down the stre
et. ‘Get out of here,’ he hisses. ‘There could be more of them, for fuck’s sake.’

  But Klara doesn’t listen. ‘What the hell, George?’ she says. She’s in front of him now, looking at him with equal parts irritation and frustration. ‘What are you planning to do?’

  The man who was following her turns towards her, his face lost and confused. He opens his mouth to say something, but closes it again. George pushes him back into his car, and he falls onto the wheel with his eyes closed.

  ‘I’m trying to find out who these guys are,’ he says. Triumphantly, he holds up a small, old phone.

  ‘What are you gonna do with that?’ she says, pulling him by the shoulder, away from the car, back towards his door.

  ‘I haven’t thought through every detail,’ he says.

  ‘Quelle surprise.’

  They’re at his door now, and Klara enters before George, heading up towards his apartment. ‘Why did you come back?’ he complains. ‘The plan was for you to get away.’

  ‘That was before you started mugging people,’ she mutters. She turns to him and gives him an annoyed look. ‘And his buddies call him, what do you do then?’

  George’s eyes dart back and forth, struck by the holes in his plan. ‘I’ll figure it out,’ he says. ‘Just thought we might be able to use the phone. See who he is. His contacts.’

  Klara shakes her head. ‘You asked him for the password too, right?’ she says.

  She opens the door to the apartment and enters the living room, sits down on the sofa. ‘Give me that,’ she says.

  George throws her the phone and sits in the armchair opposite her.

  ‘A burner,’ she says.

  She presses the home button and a small screen with poor resolution lights up. A PIN code is required to be able to use it. But that’s not primarily what Klara wants to check. The screen displays the current time in digital numbers. Beneath the time stands what Klara assumes must be the day and month. But she can’t read it, because the letters are Cyrillic. The phone is set to what looks like Russian.